


Lazy Mornings

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lazy early morning Moriarty/Moran sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Mornings

  “Must you smoke those wretched things?” the professor asks. “They smell dreadful.”

   Moran shrugs and blows smoke towards the ceiling. “I like ‘em.”

  Cigarette held in his left hand, his right trails lazily up and down Moriarty’s back, tracing the ridges of his spine through his nightshirt.

   “Hm,” says Moriarty. It’s a disapproving but indulgent sort of ‘hm’; Moran knows him well enough by now to read volumes from each of the monosyllabic sounds he may sometimes make.

   “Why’d you never strip properly?” Moran asks, though he knows. It’s about power, isn’t it? He’s naked as the moment he was born; stripped; his scarred body exposed while the professor keeps things hidden, even in the sun-warmed bedroom. Moriarty is not shy about his body (and he shouldn’t be, Moran thinks; he likes Moriarty’s body, not that he gets to see all of it much) but if he’s not fully exposed then he holds the upper hand.

   Since Moran already knows the answer, Moriarty declines to respond and Moran – not expecting him to do so either – merely takes another drag on his cigarette. He’s propped up against the pillows with his wiry legs draped over the professor’s hips. Once it unnerved him to be face to face with Moriarty – nobody else ever looks Moran in the eyes the way the professor does, right straight on into them and for a long time, like an animal asserting its dominance over him. Now he doesn’t mind. In fact there are times when Moriarty won’t look him in the eyes and Moran hates that; often when he won’t meet his gaze Moran feels like a puppy who’s crapped on the rug and been spanked for it, knowing he’s done something wrong but with only a tenuous grasp of just what it was.

   When Moriarty pushes deeper and harder into him he gasps and he grips the professor’s shirt in his fist momentarily. “God,” he says, slowly unclenching his fingers.

   “Not quite.” Moriarty grins at him, and at the moment of his next thrust he claims a kiss from Moran, so that Moran curses into his mouth in response to the pressure inside him.

   “Jesus Christ,” he says, when the clash of beards and lips and tongues ceases, and the professor smirks.

   “Sebastian, you should really expand your vocabulary. All that time abroad and yet you never once call out the names of other deities when I take you? I am disappointed.”

   Moran lets out a ragged breath through his teeth. “You’re mocking me, sir,” he says, and takes another pull on his cigarette.

   “You make it so easy for me to do so.” Moriarty shifts position slightly, so that his next thrust is angled more steeply, which pulls a long groan of pleasure out of Moran but nothing more coherent.

   The colonel crosses his ankles behind the professor’s back now, so that though Moriarty has Moran pinned under him, he also has Moriarty pinned there. Well he’s not going to play the entirely passive role in this, now is he? He clamps the cigarette between his teeth too now, so that he can slide both hands around Moriarty’s body. The nightshirt mostly covers Moriarty’s backside but Moran seeks out bare skin, the backs of his strong thighs, then slipping his large hands under the professor’s shirt to caress his upper torso.

    Moriarty has his face pushed to Moran’s neck now and they are pressed so tight together, obscenely joined, with the professor’s hand between their heated bodies, stroking Moran in time with his thrusts. Moran groans into the air around them while Moriarty breathes heavily against Moran’s throat. There’s nothing else in the world in these moments but them – the Napoleon of crime and his tiger, locked together. Neither has ever been married. Neither will ever marry, but they are wedded to each other. None else would have either of them, Moran supposes sometimes, and it  _terrifies_  him, just how much he’s come to want - to  _need_  Moriarty - but he’s still not run from him, and the professor has never told him to go.

   He doesn’t even know which of them finishes first - they’re so close he can’t tell and doesn’t care anyway. He bucks up into the professor’s hand one last time and then stills as he spends, while Moriarty reaches his completion planted deep inside Moran.

    When it’s over Moran pulls the cigarette from between his teeth but then takes several drags on it, trying to compose himself before he says something silly.

   Moriarty rolls off him and settles beside him, his face still close to Moran’s on the pillow.

   Moran feels pleasantly warm and sated now, albeit somewhat messy, and when he glances over and catches Moriarty’s eye there are still a fuzzy few moments when he can regard the man – this criminal mastermind; murderer; manipulator; possibly a madman too – with nothing but fondness.

   The way Moriarty looks back at him… it’s not the same. What he feels for Moran is as much possessiveness as love but there  _is_  affection in that look, and in the way his hand rests on Moran’s lean hip and in the way he presses a light closed-mouth kiss to Moran’s lips.

   Moran lets his left hand, cigarette stub clasped between his fingers, hang loosely down off the side of the bed and lies there, watching dust motes flicker in a beam of sunlight. “We should get up now, Professor,” he says. His release is splashed over his belly and it’s soon going to be uncomfortable and besides, just lazing about like there’s nothing important to be doing (even though there isn’t, really, but Moran can always clean his guns or shine up his boots or find something to occupy his restless mind and hands) doesn’t come easy to him usually. Moran’s always an early riser normally and it’s only when he’s shared a bed with the professor for the night that he tends to stay in bed longer. He’ll often still try to get up early then, but Moriarty has verbally abused him for waking him up or letting the cold air into the bed often enough that nowadays he’ll usually lie there for a long time, smoking and waiting for the professor to wake up too. Today though he was most surprised when, only a few moments after he had rolled and lit his first cigarette of the day, Moriarty was both awake and alert and decidedly… amorous.

   “In a little while,” Moriarty says against his neck, his hand snaking over Moran’s chest and settling there. His eyes are closed now. This magnificent, monstrous man who possesses the greatest and most dazzlingly complex mind Moran thinks he will ever encounter (not that he’d ever actually  _tell_  him so) is showing all the signs of being about to doze off again after the sex, and this makes something twist inside Moran’s chest momentarily. Moriarty would not do that with anyone but him – not fuck them; not fall asleep beside them.

   “Right then,” he says, reaching over to drop his cigarette end into the ashtray on the bedside table, but Moriarty probably doesn’t hear him. Since he can’t do anything else for a while he rolls another cigarette (trying not to elbow Moriarty in the back of the head while he does so), and now he reclines there, smoking it, and he watches Professor Moriarty sleep.


End file.
